Before the Fall
by will-o-whisper
Summary: Sieban Undry would have been happy spending her days studying her craft, fading into obscurity and dying alone. She is no hero, and, the hells willing, she never will be. NWN2.
1. Chapter 1

_Title: Before the Fall  
__Rating: T  
__Genre: Fantasy, Adventure  
__Warnings: language, AU(-ish)  
__Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Neverwinter Nights 2 or its characters, nor am I profiting from this story. I only claim ownership of any original characters that appear._

_Author's Note: The AU warning is due to a planned major deviation from the canon plot much later on. Though the story will rejoin the canon plot by the end (that'll make more sense when it happens. I hope.), I thought I should warn ahead of time.  
__Also, Sieban Undry is pronounced "zee-bahn un-dree."_

_(Edited for flow. No significant changes to plot or characterization made)_

* * *

The building was little more than a shack built out of flimsy rotting planks that could have been pulled straight from the bay. Dark greenish-grey mildew thrived in the shadowy spaces between the warped wood. It smelled horrible, but not nearly as bad as the stale piss and vomit that pooled in the ditches and haphazardly dug gutters. The shack, like the rest of the buildings that stood vigil over the dank alleyway, seemed to sag under the weight of its own roof and slant forward, as though placing judgment on all who passed. This was a place of filth and grim and seediness. The two women striding down the alley in their neat, if simple, gear looked out of place. 

They were an odd pair. Tieflings were rare enough; tieflings traveling together, even more so.

One of the women stopped at the foot of the steps, standing stiffly straight. She was tall, skeletal, even in her heavy wizard's robes, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and dark-faced. Her gaze flitted from place to place, as though it offended her delicate sensibilities to look upon something dirty for any length of time. The casual observer would never guess that Sieban Undry had spent the majority of her twenty-one years living in the muck and mud of West Harbor.

Her eyes flicked to her companion. "You are sure this is the place?" Her voice was low and rough.

The other woman, Neeshka, dashed past her, taking the few steps to the rotting shack door two at a time. She paused to turn around, eyes bright under fox-fur-red bangs, grin playing on her lips. Her sinewy tail twitched in impatience as she waved her companion forward.

"That's what Caleb said." Neehska shrugged, dismissing the question. "I know it," she gestured at their surroundings, "doesn't look like much, but trust me, Moire'll be a lot more helpful than the Watch-hounds—_them_, you can't trust." With that, Neeshka cracked the door and slipped inside. Sieban followed with a sour expression.

Moire's place, or at least the main room, was as decrepit inside as out. The walls, at least the spots that were visible between the shelves and crates stacked against them, were stained from water damage and, Sieban thought, eying a reddish-brown splotch on a patch of wall behind an unstable looking pile of crates, perhaps also from something more sinister. Someone had attempted to give the room some class. Fine, if slightly faded, Waterdhavian rugs covered most of the floor; a large, stylish desk dominated the far corner of the room. These trappings looked tacky in their destitute surroundings.

Moire herself was nowhere to be seen.

Neeshka flopped down in a straight backed wooden chair, part of set of four. Sieban remained standing, arms crossed. They both watched the door behind the desk; neither was foolish enough to believe the mistress of the house was out.

Time seemed to pass slowly, and that allowed Sieban's mind a chance to wander. This was not the future she had envisioned for herself, bending knee and begging for work from Neverwinter's dregs. This was not a choice she chose to make; this was a choice she was forced to make. The City Watch would never employ the likes of her.

She and Neeshka had visited the Watch that morning, after meeting Sand but before meeting Caleb. Fort Locke seemed so long ago, when Marshal Cormick offered his reward and thanks for finding the fort commander and saving the fort (an accident. Sieban and her companions had stumbled on Commander Tann and the shadow priest's undead army while "investigating" a tomb at Neeshka's request). Yet Cormick had remembered without needing reminding, and, with a stern smile, he offered Sieban a small pouch weighted with gold. Gold, that Sieban had accepted with a wordless nod.

She had hardly turned her back to leave when the lieutenant Cormick had been speaking to whispered "Can you trust them?". Rage did not flare so much as smolder in Sieban's stomach; that man _dared_ to think her some deaf, stupid animal.

Though in truth, she never heard Cormick's reply, any doubts Sieban had about petitioning Moire and her gang died with Neeshka's knowing look as they stepped back out into the streets of Neverwinter.

Sieban stiffened. Something pricked at the back of her neck, like a mosquito bite. Warm breath caressed her slightly pointed ear. "Don't move until you're told. You too." The pressure on her neck increased until the light prick became a sharp sting and something warm and wet trickle down her spine to pool between her collar and skin. Neeshka's hand dropped from her weapon and she eased back to perch on the edge of her chair, displeasure prominent in her expression.

"You should know," the voice, smooth and female, continued, "that the only reason you're still alive is because of Caleb's word. And that doesn't go as far as either of you might think." Pain sparked bright, white, and without warning behind Sieban's eyes. Her long slender fingers flew instinctively to her cheek. "Turn around."

Still caressing the sure-to-bruise skin on her face, Sieban glanced nervously at Neeshka. The other tiefling nodded. Sieban turned slowly.

Moire was unexpectedly beautiful, with bright eyes set in a sharp, exotic face and dark hair knotted at the the nape of her neck. A vicious, self-satisfied smile played on her lips as she toyed with the dagger still tipped with Sieban's blood. Sieban wondered how long she had been watching. "Tell me why I shouldn't drive this blade through your throat," she cooed.

"I need to get into the Blacklake." The words whispered out so softly that for a moment Sieban thought Moire hadn't heard. Then Moire laughed.

"What, you want to join the nobility?" She turned up her sharp, delicate nose haughtily. "What do I care what you need?"

"An exchange of services." Sieban murmured the rehearsed response. Her hand fell away from her face and she glanced up from the floor. "I can help you."

Moire barked her half-crazed laugh. "Is that what you think?" Her smile vanished suddenly, replaced by a ugly scowl. "The Watch is useless, full of cowards and greedy cowards; they need to be reminded who runs this place." She paused, as if waiting for some form of agreement. A beat of silence passed before she continued. "I _own _the Docks. There are some people who think control should be maintained 'quietly' with subtle threats, but what good are threats if they aren't backed up with pain and blood?" Moire stepped forward so she was chest-to-chest with Sieban. Though she was shorter than the tiefling, the top of her head barely brushing the tip of Sieban's nose, she seemed much more imposing. Sieban fought the urge to step back.

Moire locked eyes with Sieban and tapped the tip of the dagger against her bruising cheek. The cold blade came to rest against heated skin. "What use is a grip if you don't _squeeze_?"

Moire's gaze held steady. Neeshka shifted about somewhere out of sight. It was clear an answer was required. Sieban asked with a passive expression, "Where can I fit in?"

Moire smiled.

* * *

Tensions ran high in the Sunken Flagon in the month following Sieban's meeting with Moire. Though Neeshka chatted happily whenever the chance was available, Khelgar and Elanee, her other companions, refused to speak to her. Khelgar refused to "associate with no-honor sneak thieves," while Elanee believed that "hurting those people who dared have morals wasn't right." They kept to themselves. Only once were serious words exchanged with either of them: when Elanee requested to travel...somewhere, a request Sieban only vaguely remembered granting. Both Elanee and Khelgar were gone for the rest of that week. 

For his part, Sieban's foster uncle, Duncan, continued to offer free room, board, and unconditional love despite his niece's nonexistent thanks.

So Sieban made her nightly rounds with Neeshka, and later, with Qara, the young sorceress who was eager for any excuse to get out of cleaning tables for Duncan.

Moire required that the Docks be swept thrice weekly, with a report that was mostly formality submitted at the end of the week. Occasionally, there were other jobs: a merchant whose payment was late, a watchman whose behavior was out of line . Sieban was required to handle such complications, when they arose. Otherwise, her time was her own.

There was a fair sized storeroom in the back of the Sunken Flagon that Sieban had commandeered the evening she arrived. Duncan had allowed it, perhaps, out of some misguided sense of kinship that his foster niece did not return. What time she did not spend on the streets of Neverwinter, Sieban spent converting this storeroom into the library and lab she had always dreamed of, but never dared hope for, back in West Harbor.

Whether out of fear or apathy, the other patrons did not bother her, and the storeroom fell victim to the ordered chaos only a wizard could create. Empty crates, stacked atop one another against the wall, became cheap bookshelves that overflowed with scrolls, tomes, and loose parchment. The workbench was covered with alchemical tools, spell components, and scattered parchment and quills. There were stains on the rug, singe marks on the wall. Empty plates sitting forgotten on the small table Sieban often dined and slept at.

The path to Blacklake was no closer to being open than it had been a month ago. Sieban could not bring herself to care.

_

* * *

__a/n: Constructive criticism is always appreciated._


	2. Chapter 2

_a/n: This chapter has been completely rewritten for various reasons, the most obvious being that the original chapter sucked. :) I'm much happier with this one; I hope you will be too.  
_

* * *

Days became weeks and weeks turned to months and Sieban counted the passage of time by the spells and techniques she learned. At first, she almost missed her master, Tarmas, back in West Harbor, his discipline and guidance. Even as he disapproved of her chosen school, her ambitions, Tarmas had taught Sieban the magic craft honestly; and for her part, Sieban had been the near ideal pupil: quiet, studious, and quick to master. Tarmas had had his uses, but Neverwinter had mages too. What she could not learn from them, Sieban strove to teach herself, not always successfully, but there were results. A new spell here, a potion there—the successes outweighed the risk of failure. She learned. 

When the order came, Sieban was in her lab, hunched over her cluttered table, carefully copying a recently acquired scroll into her spell book.

The first knock, she didn't hear, absorbed as she was in her work. The second knock she ignored. The third was accompanied by angry shouting.

"Don't ignore me! I know you're in there!" More pounding. "You've got a visitor. You know it's bad enough you losers make me clean up after you; I'm not running your messages too." Sieban heard Qara huff in the silence that followed. For several seconds the only sound was the scratching of quill on parchment as Sieban sketched out runes and power words. Finally, Qara spoke, her tone petulant. "Fine, whatever. Don't think I'll care when your 'friend' kills you in your sleep."

Sieban waited one, two, three breaths, but Qara said no more. The sorceress had left.

Visitors from Moire, that was odd. In the past, Sieban had always received orders directly through Moire; something must have changed. She should greet this visitor, Sieban thought. Nothing good could come of them, but ignoring them could only be much worse.

As soon as she was finished, she would see to them, then. Moire was not worth the loss that would result from interrupting her scribing.

Each scritch of quill on parchment dragged Sieban further from reality, slowly reducing her world to the book before her. She noticed nothing, heard nothing. The sound of the lock clicking and the door creaking never pierced her perception.

A hand landed heavily on Sieban's shoulder and only years of practice kept her quill hand from jerking and marring her hard work.

"I think you over estimate your importance, thinking you can just ignore a call from Ms. Moire." The voice was gruff, deep, and male. So this was Qara's reported visitor.

The hand withdrew. Sieban said nothing as she copied the final bit of the spell. The writing on the scroll glowed briefly before dissolving into shining particles and whisking off the parchment. Contrary to her passive composure as she set down her quill and closed her spell book, icy rage had settled Sieban's veins. She rested her hands palms-down on the table and followed with her eyes the pale brown birth marks that speckled her skin to where they disappeared at her wrists, hidden beneath the cuffs of her sleeves.

"Get out. I will be finished shortly," she whispered, refusing to look at her visitor lest the sight of him stir her to act foolishly.

He laughed. The derisive sound chilled Sieban's anger just a little more. "Almost half a year and you still don't know your place. You've got nerve, mouthing off to your higher-ups. I don't like that."

"Superior or not, you will leave." Every second this man spent invading, _defiling_, the sanctuary Sieban had built for herself made her stomach turn. Not even Neeshka, ever the curious snoop, had set foot in this room since Sieban had claimed it, yet this _man_ not only dared to break his way in, but spoke with a swagger as though he were master of this realm. Sieban wondered if he had friends and how quickly would they come running if he screamed.

The chair scraped across the wooden floor as Sieban stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of the front of her robes. "We may speak in the common room. It will be much more comfortable there."

"Just sit back down."

"I will not."

"You don't understand. I'm not giving you a choice." The heavy hand from earlier grabbed Sieban's left bicep tightly enough to hurt. She tried to resist, but Sieban was not a strong woman, and the man tossed her about as effortlessly as though she were a rag doll.

Using his free hand, he swung Sieban's chair around with a clunk and threw her into it so hard it rocked back precariously on its legs. Pain shot through her left arm as it pulled against the direction she fell and Sieban stifled a cry in her throat. She would not give him the pleasure.

He planted his grip on either of Sieban's shoulders, pinning her back in the chair. For the first time, Sieban got a proper look at her visitor. He wasn't a tall man, noticeably shorter than her, though many people were, but he was well built. Muscles in his neck shifted in time to his breathing; even covered as he was in his leather armor, Sieban could sense the practiced strength in his arms and torso. She knew enough to know that this was a man who lived life by the sword.

What drew her attention most however was his face; the high slopes of his cheeks and almost delicate curve of his nose seemed out of place alongside his voice. She had not expected the pale almond shaped eyes or blue-tinted hair with greying roots, or slightly pointed ears.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked with the casual tone of a one asking a noblewoman to spare a copper before slitting her throat for her purse.

Sieban knew very few of Moire's lackeys and none of them were half-elves; her silence said as much.

A dark expression crossed his face and was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Too bad for you and better for me. Well, all you need to know is what Ms. Moire tells you, and that means all you need care about is what _I_ tell you."

"Let me go." Only the tense set of Sieban's jaw gave her anger away. Her fingers twitched slightly, as though eager to spin the complex patterns spell work required, but she kept her hands firmly in her lap. For the time being.

He shook her roughly and slammed her against the back of the chair again; further protest died in the wake of hisses of pain. "I'll be finished shortly," he sneered, echoing Sieban's earlier words.

Sieban fell silent. She was strong in her art, but not strong enough. She was fast, but not fast enough. Sieban was not certain she could defeat this man, and that thought galled her.

Content with Sieban's seeming obedience, he continued. "I have orders, something Ms. Moire wants done tonight." The dark look crossed his face again; this time it stayed, nestled behind his eyes. "You're going to burn down the Watch building. Send a message; make sure they know who's responsible."

The words were clear enough, but they did not quite connect in Sieban's mind. The man had already released her, and had stepped back to leave before she found her voice. "Stop." To her surprise, he did. "I suppose you have plan as to how I am to go about this? A night is not enough time."

"Figure it out, because you'll have to make it enough." The corners of his mouth turned up, though no sane person would have called the expression a smile. "All that matters is that a few Watch hounds are killed."

"And how am I to keep_myself_ from be killed?"

"That's not my problem, is it? Now if you're done wasting my time…" He grasped the door knob and waved to indicate that he was leaving.

Sieban pursed her lips. "I will kill you."

"No, you won't." With that, he was gone. He didn't bother to shut the door behind him.

Sieban's shoulder throbbed steadily; her arm ached; she hardly noticed.

The room looked no different than it had before her "meeting." The scrolls Sieban had planned to study were still stacked in a neat pile by her spell book. Puddles of unidentifiable liquids from her last experiment pooled in the warped wood of her workbench; she had intended to clean up later. A battered rucksack containing inks, charcoal, empty potion bottles, blank scrolls—prizes from Sieban's last trip to the Merchants' Quarter—sat atop a mini bookshelf by the door. Everything was in its place, where it belonged, as it should be.

Yet Sieban still felt like something was wrong, like she had been violated. She could not protect her own, and that infuriated her, made her blood run cold with hate. She had learned, but not enough.

She deserved to kowtow to the scum of Neverwinter.

The Watch would burn by daybreak tomorrow, Sieban decided as she rose swiftly to her feet. She returned her seat to its proper place, pushed in against the table. The loss of life was not so terrible in Sieban's eyes; perhaps in helping Moire, she could help herself. Her gentleman caller was out of reach, but she could always turn her ire to other targets just as deserving. That plan was sound.

Sieban considered her spells and spell book. Any one of them could be useful in plotting the night's scheme. Any one of them could have been useful moments ago in ending that fool of half-elf's life.

Suddenly, without so much as a shout, Sieban swept the scrolls and book off the table, sending parchment flapping and fluttering to the floor. Her spell book landed spin up with a soft thud. The pages bent and crumpled under the weight of the cover.

Sieban turned her back on the mess and swept out of the room. She shut the door, but she did not lock it.

* * *

_a/n: Constructive criticism is always appreciated._


End file.
